a hollow cost

A HOLLOW COST.

No fear, except thee fear of leaving. Death is like each
other. Life has only dreams to recommend it, and thee
security of being inside. To be part of a group, to be
INSIDE, is to enter thee body and partake of sex. We
therefore thrive on this violation. We attempt to recreate
thee excitement of a first moment's intensity by deceptive
means. Happiness can give you fear. Of course thee fear of it
ending. Thee only real fear is fear of ending, and thee only
joy is violation. Unhappiness gives insight cruelly,
happiness makes a death threat. As time passes thee addiction
dwindles. Always a jolt of steel. Always. Thee orchid, thee
metal. Muscles, no longer as loose as childhood, ache in
memorium, stiffening with age before beauty. Age before lust.
Age before love. Demand outstrips supply, we congeal, fixed
in parables and fantasies. Thee past controls through people.
Little girls become young ladies. Proper. They attract by
their lack of experience, unaware of thee spell, more
concerned with being inside than observation. They accept
thee host. They create a ghost that haunts forever. Thee
ache for reclamation. Perhaps, thee story goes, if you
recreate that first moment, passed; you can travel back in
time. Or by creating a stranger, replenish lust. This
violation then is a form of breaking thee rules: a necessary
act to exist. Conscious self- deception and threat of oneself
and one's security affirms existence, makes real. Sexuality,
getting inside, makes real, makes really real, and once
inside we can make anything happen. Eyes shut in a coffin, a
world of darkness, we travel that darkness to reconvene our
emotions and listening hard we see every detail of every
sexual act. Little girls masturbating about tomorrow. Little
boys masturbating. Every second losing intensity, creating
thee need forever to go back inside and feel safe, to travel
back and feel alive. It really is so difficult. What we have
creates our need. Restrictions are removed like school
uniforms, we discover eroticism in both manners. And manners
maketh man, woman and star . We enter our bodies. Inside
isquiet, scarcely a solution in sight. Sharing a body is
nothing. Sharing insight is everything. A fine balance
maintained by neurosis. When we break rules, we become
fools, driven by a desperate grasping of hope for ignorance.
Thee rules are created by a wound. We never escape them. We
descend into them. Brats in a trap. All paranoia comes from
thee past. It takes us like a rape and damages. Like a rape
and damages. Like a rape. Damages. But in thee mourning,
after thee night, we fall in love with thee light. The
solution is, to touch skin, and stay safe, deep inside. Thee
first step towards control is ownership. Thee foundation of
ownership is meme-control. Ownership of information is thee
real system of control. To know a thing is to possess it. To
possess a thing is to be able to manipulate it. Search
continues. Control needs time like a junkie needs junk. If
only it were all a matter of time. Takes all kinds. Time is.
Time is passed on. Turning over thee ancient symbols used to
weigh gold in Egypt we terminate dreams. Regular trips to
thee undercurrent display confusion in precise detail. Thee
effect is one of accuracy of purpose and description. Images
sequenced to define thee exact nature of time and place. New
York. Skeletal myth jaded and scarred. Know, self-respect
breeds cynical self-abuse. Never never return to thee
previous character. Always create a new one. What do you see
from thee faded telephone box? Two sides of one street un-re-
joining each other like worms? Visions convicted and
betrayed. We become what we once wrote, thought better of,
and since despised. We eat what starves us. We defecate what
we once took to be our Selves, to be what we once were. A
litany common to all, but Deities. Designed by spirits dead
and erect. Projections making light of surface. The
alternative is Enless, endless sadness. Thee consumption of
guilt threatens guilt. Inside a shelter. Old men pissing on
trees. Dogs turning 'circles of animals'. Thee black sickly
powder of fear. Speaking thee incantations aloud trapped in a
lump of skin. Instinct breeding the final moves, thee
infinite lovers. We accept them on our shoulders and leave
you for free. Then time ends. Eyes burn and close. Wounded. I
wandered that land. Making plans. Building strange
concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV. Thee whiskey. Thee
fur cellar as indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference.
Visions convicted and betrayed. Looking from zero point
there's all kinds of illusions. Zero point. It takes all
kinds of illusions, this, this, death. Thee pains don't ease
as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt. E thought the
hatred would melt. Thee brains get blocked. Thee drains stray
across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's tricks, and not
even caring for thee moment. Some daze are like friendship.
Routines pulling you away from thee burden of vision. Good
friends that step in and destroy thee direction of youth.
Thee apotheosis of desire is to outclass death. We are
sentimental and quite capable of finding laughter. No iceberg
this tension. Thee averted eyes of youth. And now it's
finished. Process complete. Only thee corpse to sacrifice
like a gangster. Thee special forces where agape meets
thelema. Nietsche never had a cushier b-earth. Here we see a
principle, here we see a subject. Endless twigs on thee fire.
Axle cracked by frost. Resting. Snow has crushed my
camouflage. Snow has killed my garden. Thee shelter is still
there. Time is. Time is passed on. Thee dogs are now dogs.
Just dogs. Still turning circles. Thee eyes still burn.
Choice as hard as tooth, as cold as knowing. And yet, agains
my will, another dream coming into focus. Ice on soil. Dog
resting at my back. Daylight of friendship cracked with
shadow. In this dream it begins and ends at the dogs fucking
in circles park I remember from my childhood and now call
zero point. Pointless passover. In heat, breathing as a
bloody door shuts. (The deities must think I'm affirming my
existence this way.) In they come. 23 visions of light. Thee
small room. Memories of blood and urine by thee medical box.
Links of old senses in rope.... (Do the dieties think I can't
navigate the meanings here?) There were shadows pulling
scales from young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Thee small hands
played patterns on thee window. Fog in living rooms. Several
old, old pages curling as dog barks spewed across night time
light. Rope tightened making furrows. (I know what 's going
on here.) No sound. In the essential nature of legends. Thee
Dissident Watchers nefeling liquid secret distopias from long
sought distant utopias. Like alchemists siphoning mind from
chemical, for there once were stones in a sexual cathedral
now drained of steel by the endless shadows of a Pyhrric
cloister of bureaucracy. Down thee foockin' alley is where he
went. Body shifting on wood, dog outside thee door. Is there
only the smell of blood? There is both truth and history,
projection and dream. Flickering memories as trains
manoeuvre in old men's eyes. (Did they not think we'd know?)
Rope lashing marks back hard. It's all a matter of counting,
tic, tic. Betrayal of simple fertility. Tic. Thee lack of
wild explosions a code to rebuild every life. Tic. This time
tic thee victim is desired and wet. Tic. These lives are
stones tic, assembled in ancient dreams of slick young flesh.
Tic. Quiet and hooded. Tic. Rituals of male. Tic. Many
shapes tattooed in old buildings. Tic. Tattoos. Tic. Old
keys. Tic. Flesh. Resting. Slight shifting. Feet deepening
red. No sound. Across thee way a boy was grinning. Hard-on
obvious in old torn gray trousers. Inherited from an earlier
victim of plague. Uniform remnants. Light of night filtering
through where roof tiles slipped their tail and buggered old
senile books across dreams. Nothing salvaging code. Tic.
Thee same city we all used to pass away time in. Crippled
compacts, flesh bound. Each ritual makes its demand. Slipping
a wooden coil of expensive death under all those derelict
lines. No engines anymore. No green and pleasant ghosts of
death playing in thee grass. Just simple and banal. As you
would expect. Terminus. Final flaw. If one could truly
describe that light, of course it's gray, but, that light
images tumble, only eyes hurt from lack of focus. No physical
sensations here. Limbo of stone. Men separated from
brickwork. No polarity visible. Similes of love from pitted
carriages. Semen as thee corpse evolves into alchemy. (That
was someone else.) Liquid sings of old religions. Hand
smearing juice on cock, squeezing tight as it glides into,
into, unfaithfulness. Vanity of accounting. Tic. Pride of
hindsight. Tic. Crinkling of skin against worn eyes. There is
no need for more light. Scanning ripples of boyish flesh
used to pass away time in. Car crumpled, rain on moss. Crack
of wood. Only a few see this code. Tic. Gray suit draped
across street. Feet derelict. Looking from zero point
there's all kinds of truth. Tic. In thee wrong camouflage.
Not 1984. Taxi making waves from red lights and green
visions. Tic. A green magician perhaps. Takes all kinds. So
there it was. From school to outhouse to dream to thee boy's
grin across thee line. Thee old theories. Many an alchemist
died for less, or so they say. And we have thee fragments.
Pillars and razors and comfortable settings. Takes all kinds.
Leaves falling, sometimes snow. Collapsed my camouflage net
this year. We sit with thee lights on, eyes closed. Thumbing
through dictionaries. What makes this difficult? Is there
madness in this method? There is no god where I am. Steroids
lead to addictive joys and elective death. How the hell did
we get to Bill Haley? Does shame lurk like physical weapons
waiting to mug us no matter how late. It's AL a matter of
time. Visions without affirmations destroy our guts. Thee
irony of nature's game. Content without content. We play it
both ways. Weighing up thee results on ancient Egyptian coin.
Did you know you killed thee strongest boy with hopelessness
alone? Old myths die soft. "Bad advice," says Father Jesse,
always focussed on essence and suffering. Thee victim
relaxes. Caring is blood. Thereby hangs a thread. This is
not about one thing. Tic. Does not belong to one person. Tic.
One subject. These words belong to anything we think. Tic.
And it's not thee name anymore. No set piece battles. Tic. No
solution turning acid. Tic. There is a system evolving
whereby all these words apply to every situation. Tic.
(Isn't that rather arrogant?) No. It takes all kinds of
words, this life. "Is this thee white path?" asks Sister
Sibyl. No. Don't be mistaken. Tic. All these marvelous words,
teasing us close to existence. Then. Time ends. It's all a
matter of time. Blurred self-image corrupting. Dangerous.
"During a conference on tactics it was decided to terminate
this mission with extreme prejudice," from when E was really
young. It originates in thee dark side of history. This
mission never existed. Getting thinner all thee time. Subject
limited to a strip of one. A circle of animals. Motives
replace products in our minds. Object d'art to camouflage our
own commodification. It takes all kinds. Tic. Philosophy
separates thee person from thee Mass. Exit all legends. Enter
thee laws of magick. In this world we entertain not audiences
but fantasies. We complete thee self-image, blurred or not.
Tic. Search continues for correct process. "Proclaim present
time over," says Father Robert, somewhere in thee secret
cathedral of small stony movements. Old movies dream
conflict. Thee old, old area in sheets of snow, reversible,
lacking truth fades. Truth is a bad word to use. Breathing
short as spunk coats the bloody arm. Part of thee text on
thee wall. Whenever thee dog turned thee night trembled.
Tremble died of auld lang syne. Shimmered like water moved by
piss in a forest. Shadow moved in thee light. Peace of
history. Marks of cold spray as thee material fades. Our
appetite for miracles May King traps of time. Daze go by.
Viciousness is not enough. Wooden pricks lubricated against
dawn. Slow motion of exact formulae edging fear into spectres
f old death. Tic. Key twists causing rivulets of blood and
piss. Floor stained with patience and precision. Tic. Only
animals remain. No focus. "What do you want next time?" thee
dream whimpered. Who thee fuck was coming back? Back? Back?
Back of hand on kidneys. No need to define victims. Tic.
Where do you hide terminus? Routine dreaming. Mirages that
exist. Affirmations wax of fur and bullet. In one dark corner
thee exact dimensions were long ago concealed. And thee
entrance danced to relive old histories, plunging through
flesh to saw, sore eyes. Source,arise.Lost in light of night,
into that darkness. Always watched, all ways. Relying on thee
slim movement of thee least action. Key. Always easy in this
room. Tic. Small room. Chamber of conscience. Plaster
flaking like love. (How Victorian; English Victorian at
that.) Dreams contained in liquid. Sperm rages in formulas.
Drinking rain even as trees cough out thee empty bairn of
history. Thee way of thee formulas. Thee wisdom of breath.
Thee temple of light. But he sees you. As he waits. He does
not need thee light of night, thee serene dream of time, thee
sweet flesh ideas are heir to. He is above you and in you.
His joy is in your joy. When all movement and thought stops
we are awake. We are awake because we are empty and Anything
at all merely serves to fill us again. Did you hear us? E
said we were awake. Sad, E saw that game. On one side near
thee old house. Movement of rat in corner. Rustle of scales.
Rubble crunching like snow, kicked aside like tin. He was
grinning before he jumped. Oh, nothing in particular. Dog
shifting and sleeping. Oxygen short in thee air. Sound of
breathing louder than old stone. Light of night twisted
fading. Sound playing across skin like fingers. Prickling
hairs on thee cock. No way to identify. No key. Tic. Empty as
flesh. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time. Several
days past. Thee gate remained closed. Shadows at attention
marking time. Tic. Orders to thee last as vigils of death
ponder flesh and all thee dogs crawl away. Car passes. Tic.
Phone rings. Glass cracks. Tic. Did you see that? Black
fingernails strapped to linen. Sound of steel beneath flesh,
perhaps not deep enough still. Tic. Direction gone. Mangle
us. Tic. Septic from piss. Tic. Line around heel. Lack of
nails cracked. Tic. Glass crimson as thee doctor fell.
Hiding his face they say. Shame. A blunt instrument in
surgeon's hands. Dry noise in throat washing across winter as
trains drift by. Counting. Tic. Noise of dreams at thee
door. Tic. Huge carved monoliths, ivory curved around thee
illusory gates. "Open, open!" For know reason. For just a
small map, an old routine frozen before. Before time passed
on. Leaving spirals bouncing against spirals. Wherever we
observe, it is all ways thee same place. Thee traces remain.
To me. To me. Thee sex scene over for now. Last night thee
flesh came. Open arms, strong, empty pale. A volunteer. Light
behind in thee doorway. Fading fresco. Let dreams slide
across thee floor of winter, splinters in foot. Gasps of
little boy who didn't want to bleed.All ready. Blood. Feet
stamping. Fingers jabbing in groin. Tic. Already empty.
Drifting in story: no detail forgotten. No fact erased. No
one watched. Trapped in small room. Tic. Looking up at thee
ceiling there were thee usual number of tiles laid out. Tic.
Gray as photographs. Thee same cathedral we all used to pass
a way in. Small baby smiled. Kicked. Such simple structures
cascade from box to corner. Kicked. Fear of lust of
destruction. Kicked. Results not uncommon. Stolen trusts.
Cold. Just a very, very small game. Lights of night twisted
overhead. Tic. Exactly several days passed. Tic. Sick dogs
slouch away. Tic. Knives flared in little boy hands. Tic.
Fortunes slumping in corners wrestling. Tic. Thee car dumped
near piles of earth. Tic. To flicker of moon on knife in
stream of icy breath. Tic. Wondering. Tic. Wondering. Zero
point. Responsibilities cracked like frostbitten flesh. (How
Victorian.) A window slammed shut. Awake, all ways. Here we
are. No thing recovers. Still drinking rain as patchwork
leaves sleazily cover deep, deep, deep dreams. Eassau, e'
did. Our favorite snow defined tree just peters away and is
off or something. From thee window, just lumps of flesh
moving near water. A ction of wall flaking like thee bedbug-
ridden plaster of "daath". (How very, very Victorian.) Ex-
dreams contained in fertile liquid. Thee ectoplasmic
thoughts made ritual gestures and parted with no messages
spoken, an emptiness of this story. Thee serene time merely
serves to spill, then dies like poison spiders stamped
needfully underfoot. A spark of will before thee cold draught
and damp "would" of future, placed near dying trees. Severe
rot. Tic. Uncouth sounds playing across skin like light
erotic fingers. Tic. Yes, odd steel needles buried in needy
images. Tic. Hard, no sounds. Tic. Next ache is a
continuation of the first ache. Tic or breath or pulse or
waft. Tic. Begorah, always thee same numbers. Tic. Good dew
ladels sweat on the body knowingly tensed. Tic. [sic] By
night laced in stomach, expression traced in nails basked in
victims blood. Tic. Choke, my Knight. Tic. Get her Inside
thee boxed papers inscribed with meaningless maps,
intersections. Remember? Eying sophisticates from under the
trees of guilt, of shame. Paralysing. Eyes useless. Regret
useless. Heat of tracks counted like withered grass. Twisted
in old hair. Throat washing across winter as an old routine
drifts by. No dream forgotten. Links of old senses in rope.
Knots of divinity. Aware of floor on flesh, tubes of water.
Raging mud lightens it up. No thoughts, thee best type of
mind. Empty vessels make thee most alchemically pure
cathedral stones. Life is moving, Charlie. Time gripping
tight like a lover's orgasm. Tied trees bending. Quiet and
hooded. Thea sins too small noises of rats next door. Cable,
craw, celibate. Roar. Fur trembling like light.. Pulling
scales clear of rustling menses in thee essential nature of
legends. Shadows steal from endless counting. Thee rest left
open. Roar. Not enough. Knot. Tide goes out.

genesis p-orridge
Cazadero, California, Feb 1994